


Everything in Retrograde

by olivestrees



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Book 12: Nightshade (Alex Rider), Gen, Mission Fic, Time Travel, Yassen Gregorovich Lives, well not really full-fledged yassen the assassin hehe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivestrees/pseuds/olivestrees
Summary: Nightshade’s found a new client. MI6’s missing an operative. Somewhere in between these two alarming statements, Alex didn’t expect to see a dead nineteen-year old assassin running around.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is based off of _Nightshade_. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve read the book, so let me know if there are inaccuracies!

**Wellington Barracks, 2003**

Private David Fischer absently tightened his grip on his L85 rifle as he sweated in front of Wellington Barracks.

It was a balmy, slow day in London. A handful of tourists wandered aimlessly on the sidewalk in front of him. Across the street were more tourists, some on occasion pointing over at the gate where he was stationed. His military uniform’s thick fabric, combined with the unusual spring warmth, led the cotton to stick uncomfortably to his skin. His nose was in desperate need of a scratch, a strand of hair dangled tauntingly before his eyes, and his bladder was achingly full. In an ideal situation, he’d simply remove his bearskin hat and head in for a quick piss. As it was, he made no move to do either. He only had five more minutes before his shift ended; he could last that long.

Opened in the nineteenth century, Wellington Barracks was placed strategically three hundred yards away from Buckingham Palace. The close proximity was in the event of an emergency, but Fischer doubted it’d ever come to that. Well — he hoped, more like. He was a man of routine, and as much as he was drilled to expect the unexpected, his life was nothing but predictable these days.

He blew out a near imperceptible exhale as he eyed a girl and boy who approached his fellow guard curiously. They were on the young side — thirteen, fourteen, perhaps? The girl had bright eyes and flaxen pigtails; the boy had dark hair and a round, cherubic face. They didn’t look related, but they could easily be friends. The boy carried a container brimming with caramel corn. The tantalizing aroma of glazed caramel was enough to bring saliva to the front of Fischer’s mouth.

He tuned their youthful voices out, continuing to stare forward. He could see, however, that his fellow guard was charmed by their idle chatter. 

Two minutes.

A tourist stopped by to take a selfie with him. Well, _with_ him was being a bit generous, wasn’t it? He felt a dull throbbing somewhere behind his temples. Maybe a stiff drink or two would remedy that problem. That, and a hot shower.

Once two minutes were up, Fischer smartly marched through the gate. Behind him, the boy and girl were still yammering away. Not his problem. Although Atkinson seemed to enjoy their company. The man has two kids their age, Fischer remembered abruptly. He certainly didn’t himself; he was a bit young for that matter, and he’d never found the right girl.

A shower, he told himself. And then a drink.

Turning a corner, he was unprepared to see a young man — a boy, really, dressed in dark trousers and a white slim-fitting polo. He had close-cropped blond hair and pale, expressionless eyes. There was an off-putting way to him, and something in Fischer shriveled up when he met his icy gaze.

He opened his mouth to ask him what he was doing here. Most likely, the boy was lost. Or a troublemaker looking to tell his friends afterwards what it was like to sneak into military barracks.

But before he could get a word out, the boy moved at lightning speed. A quick flash of movement, and the next sensation Fischer knew was darkness.

The boy lowered his hand, fingers still curled into a fist. He immediately supported the body under the arms as it slumped and checked for a pulse. Unconscious for now, but the swelling of the brain would cut off supply of oxygen and result in death within a few minutes.

He dragged the body behind a nearby bush. This secluded area was a blind spot on the security cameras surrounding Wellington Barracks; he’d done his research. A sloppy lapse in security. Fortunate in his case, he supposed. His fingers flew as they nimbly removed the black bearskin hat. He stripped off the scarlet tunic, dark blue trousers, and leather buff belt. 

Five minutes later, a man of similar build to Fischer, with equally pale hair and eyes, emerged from behind the bush. His uniform’s white plume was worn to the left of his hat, as it should be for a Grenadier, complete with his royal cypher shoulder badge and grenade collar badge. Fischer had only one estranged family member, a distant aunt who had never got on with her brother, much less her brother’s only son. He would not be missed. 

As for Fischer’s interactions with other guards in the barracks — well, Yassen could get creative. 

He methodically checked over the man’s fallen weapon. A standard-issue L85 rifle with a bayonet attachment. He nodded briefly over at the pair who had soundlessly joined him. The boy, Ten, held a spade, while the girl, Sixteen, held a shovel. Both younger than him, but then, he was among the older ones anyway. He didn’t envy them of their task. They would be there for hours, he knew.

Without a further look back, he headed off in the direction of the showers. 

Over two hundred miles away, on the other side of England, Alex Rider was sitting in another briefing with Mrs Jones.

The office was just as nondescript as Alex remembered, since a few months ago when Mrs Jones had so kindly called upon his services. There were two dull landscape paintings, an antique desk polished to a shine, and a couple of chairs. Shelves stacked neatly with books that looked like they’d never seen the light of day. Alex wouldn’t be surprised if the pages were completely empty, actually. Seemed like the kind of trolling MI6 would do. 

Mrs Jones surveyed him over a sheaf of paper she was studiously flicking through. “How are you feeling, Alex?”

“Fine,” he responded automatically, more out of rote habit than anything else, and blinked. “What is it this time?”

Grimly, Mrs Jones slid the sheaf of paper across the desk to Alex. It remained untouched as Alex stared blankly back at her. 

“Nightshade.” 

A pit of dread formed in Alex’s stomach. “I thought you handled them last time?” he asked faux-innocently.

Since Alex’s first mission against Nightshade, MI6 had apparently (and uncharacteristically) been able to deal with the child-kidnapping-and-brainwashing cult on its own, without Alex’s assistance. The last Alex had heard, MI6 had gained quite a few of the children in its custody and been working tirelessly on rehabilitating them. Undoing the psychological damage on them. _And converting them to MI6’s cause instead, most likely,_ Alex thought wryly.

So many teen spies! Soon, Alex would no longer be useful. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Idly, he wondered how Mrs Jones’s rehabilitation with her daughter Sofia was going. And if they’d managed to catch William.

Mrs Jone’s mouth curled in displeasure. “Well, they’re back. A persistent lot. You understand, Alex — SCORPIA took some missions to dismantle completely.”

Yes, SCORPIA had been responsible for a majority of Alex’s scars. And for his entire family. Alex barely refrained from scowling.

At least this time, Nightshade had nothing more it could take away from him. There was Jack, but currently she was with family in America. Hopefully, she’d be far, far away from whatever mess Alex would be in this time.

“We were able to apprehend nine more of its members,” Mrs Jones said slowly. There was the distinct sound of a crackling wrapper as she unfurled a peppermint’s covering in her hands. “That brings us up to almost half of Nightshade. But there’s still a great deal of damage that can be done by twelve trained killers, kids though they may be.” Her brow furrowed at this last bit; undoubtedly, she was thinking of her children. 

Alex couldn’t help himself. “Did you get William as well?”

Mrs Jones returned from whatever distant place she’d been to level a disturbingly detached gaze at Alex. “No,” she said abruptly. 

The office descended into an uneasy silence. Mrs Jones popped the peppermint into her mouth with steady hands. Her dark gaze was boring holes into Alex’s eyes. “That’s why I need you, Alex,” she continued, almost conversationally. “We had an operative fail to make his rendezvous in Prague. A very reliable operative, Gerandy was. He was instrumental to our operation that captured those children. He was chasing a lead in Prague, but he must’ve found something.” She grimaced. “Or I suppose more correctly, Nightshade found him.”

Alex wondered how scarily efficient an operative would have to be in order to detain nine of Nightshade’s ruthless killing machines. He shivered. “Alright. What do I have to do?”


	2. Chapter 2

How ironic was it that MI6 had pulled him out of school, just to send him back to it? Albeit in a different fashion. It was the tail end of the spring term, and apparently, MI6 had found him an independent school’s summer study abroad program. The school, Neuman School, had a campus in the Prague 1 municipality, where most of the city’s medieval heart was located. 

Alex had been to Prague before; Ian had shown him the ropes of pickpocketing here, actually. He wondered, in a brief burst of amusement, if he could put his skills to use here. He glanced sidelong at his travel group. Well, he’d make an effort not to. Best to avoid attracting undue attention. 

He had actually protested being sent under the guise of a study abroad student, surrounded by other students. It wasn’t like Alex was skilled enough to avoid collateral damage, with as much trouble as he seemed to attract. Mrs Jones had reassured him that he could always ensure he put ample distance between himself and the others. Besides, study abroad students tended to wander out on their own, anyway. Alex found it telling that Mrs Jones hadn’t tried the route of telling him there was no apparent danger. The missing operative provided proof against that.

Alex was heartened, as always, by Smithers’s gadgets. This time, he’d been equipped with a disposable Kodak 35mm camera that served as a tracking device. If he pressed the red flash button three times in quick succession, MI6 would receive a distress signal and hone in on his location. He also had a prepaid SIM card for the Czech Republic, except that this one had a near-invisible, protective adhesive film that he could peel back. After he stuck it to a flat surface, the exposed card would react with the surface’s material within ten seconds and eat right through it. As a final gift, Smithers had given him the latest AirPods Pro, which doubled as a stun grenade and listening device. If he pressed and held the force sensor on the stem, he could listen in on conversations that took place within five meters, adjusting as necessary with the sensor. If he yanked off an Airpod’s silicone tip, he would activate a ten-second fuse. The Airpod would then explode and temporarily incapacitate people within a ten-meter radius. 

On top of that, Alex was wearing a lightweight bulletproof shirt. 

“Breathes like Egyptian cotton, that one,” Smithers had chuckled. “I’ve been working on this model for a while. Fabrics are not quite my thing, I’ll admit, but it was certainly instructional!” 

It was indeed comfortable, Alex had to admit. Although given his current location, he’d be hard-pressed to feel any sort of discomfort.

The group of four was currently chowing down on breakfast with the vigor of tourists fresh off the plane an hour ago. They were in the belle-époque Café Savoy — a misnomer, in Alex’s opinion, as it carried a more lavish and opulent atmosphere than he’d expect from any cafe. The artfully designed Neo-Renaissance ceiling drew his eyes immediately. Resplendent chandeliers hung from the high ceiling; morning light flooded the space from tall, arched windows. Everywhere Alex looked, gilded decorations adorned furniture. 

Alex peered over at one of the boys, Ryan. He was the one he knew the best so far, with an easy, approachable air about him. They had already hit it off on the plane ride here, good-naturedly arguing over their football preferences. During their conversation, Alex had been extra careful to use his alias — Philip Thomas, an unremarkable sixteen-year old boy with shaggy brown hair, a fierce love for football, and subpar grades. Very similar to his actual self, actually. A part of him was paranoid that he’d be recognized, given the flimsy disguise. He wouldn’t count his grown out hair and hasty dye as foolproof.

Ryan sported a cap over his unruly blond curls and was eagerly downing his freshly squeezed orange juice. He speared an egg on his fork and chewed with gusto. Alex had personally ordered some frankfurters drowned in horseradish mustard. The food was excellent.

Another boy, Lucas, had buried his nose in the daily news he’d been absorbed in on the plane. Alex could read the front page’s headline: ROYALS FIONA AND JAMES HONEYMOON IN BORA BORA. The black-and-white picture beneath it showed an attractive couple smiling in mid-wave at the camera. The news had been abuzz lately with the story of Irish model Fiona marrying into the royal family. Alex didn’t concern himself with such news, but he supposed it was an interesting perspective for someone outside the UK to marry Prince James. The queen had given her blessing and the public seemed to adore Fiona, despite the initial rock-bottom expectations, so Alex considered the union a success.

“That breakfast was great, wasn’t it?” Ryan gushed as they stepped out of the café. He nodded over at Lucas, who was so engrossed in the daily news he almost missed the ledge in front of the entrance. “I reckon he’s got a massive crush on Fiona. He has a poster of her in his dorm.”

Lucas scowled as he looked up at them. The tips of his ears were red. “Shove off,” he muttered. 

Ryan shrugged and flashed Alex a conspiratorial grin. “It’s okay, mate. I think we all do at this point, eh? Prince James is one lucky bastard.” He pulled his jumper over his shirt so that his next words were muffled. “C’mon, Philip. I can show you around the sights.” 

Alex found himself bemused by Ryan’s language and apparent disrespect for the royals. Then again, just because Ryan was the son of a wealthy British politician didn’t mean anything. 

They made all the tourist stops, from the grandiose Prague Castle to Charles Bridge over the Vltava River. Vyšehrad was a tenth-century fort over in Prague 2, and they somehow carved out the time between all the nonstop sight-seeing to visit that. By late afternoon, Alex could feel a pleasant burn in his calves. Nerudova Street and Petrín Hill, leading to and through Prague Castle, had been a bit of an uphill climb. Prague’s expanse of cobbled streets had made an impression on Alex when he was younger, and they continued to do so as they traversed through Prague 1 and Prague 2. They visited the John Lennon Wall, where Alex left the alien name “Philip Thomas” in his familiar script. He stared down at it, his mind immediately rejecting the notion that the name belonged to him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped away and forced a smile as Ryan turned to look at him. 

During their sight-seeing, Alex made sure he kept an eye out for anything amiss, but there was nothing unusual. Ryan cracked jokes every now and then during his incessant commentary, and Alex’s job was to simply nod along and smile. He had to admit, the day was relaxing, and Ryan was good company. Plus, he was maintaining his cover well, which under Alex’s definition meant not being shot at or captured or killed.

That night, Alex turned restlessly in his dorm bed as he stared up at the ceiling. The next day would bring more walking and touring Prague, but then that would be the end of the weekend. After that was classes, but that wouldn’t deter him from investigating. He found it difficult to believe that Nightshade would choose their base of operations in such a densely packed area. After all, their first location, Kavos Bay, had been a seemingly abandoned military base in Crete that was some ways off from the mainland. Perhaps it was strategic this time to place their base in plain sight. Or maybe their base wasn’t even in Prague.

Alex sat up to drag another blanket over himself. Whatever the case, he’d have to find out what Gerandy saw. And soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Declan Broekhart stood in his palatial penthouse suite, on the fifty-second floor of his company’s headquarters in Dublin, Ireland. The bulletproof, floor-to-ceiling windows before him were constructed from twenty layers of laminated glass. Through the thick sheet, he could see the impressive view it boasted: River Liffey, its placid waters reflecting the sheer brilliance of the blue sky above.

The penthouse was furnished tastefully and classically elegant, with a gilded Baroque ceiling, marble statues, and rich velvet drapes. The main room was immense, made even more so by the minimalist décor that amplified space. A leather recliner, matching sofa, and rustic coffee table occupied the floor area. An oriental burgundy carpet covered the length of the laminate wood flooring. 

Anyone observing the penthouse interior could conclude that its occupant owned considerable wealth and possessed a good artistic eye. But there were next to no details that could be gleaned about Broekhart’s personal life. No books, no magazines, no sentimental items. 

Except for one.

On the mahogany desk overlooking the view was a framed photograph of a stern-faced man in military garb carrying a Mauser rifle. Broekhart’s grandfather had fought in the Irish Civil War, a bloody conflict following the Irish War for Independence that had resulted in the much-disputed Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921. The treaty established that Ireland would become a Free State, but still a dominion under the British Empire. His grandfather had been an adamant anti-treaty nationalist who had died in the war, fighting for full independence from Britain. It had been in vain, as around fifteen years after his death, the Irish Republican Party (formed from the remains of the anti-treaty nationalists) approved a constitution to cut all remaining British ties. Broekhart had known his grandfather well; the man had practically raised him. 

Every day, Broekhart would wake up at 6AM sharp — the only point of routine in his day. After that, his day could branch off into a number of ways. He could choose to work out in his private gym directly adjacent to his bedroom, or call for a simple breakfast from his kitchen staff, all of them properly vetted and handpicked by Broekhart himself. Or, he could forgo breakfast and his workout entirely for a quick walk out on the roof, his bodyguards always at attention and alert for the slightest indication of danger. He could take a trip down to the market in his armored car and comprehensive guard detail. CCTV cameras lined the street leading to his building. There were two guards placed at each of the two entrances. The building was unscalable. 

As a politically outspoken media magnate, Broekhart had every right to his ceaseless paranoia. He considered it a necessity, and he was certain his many enemies would, too. He had plenty of them, from those who thought him tactless to allow his political biases to leech into work, to those who fundamentally opposed his views, to those who were envious competitors looking to rob him of his wealth and power.

Broekhart didn’t allow himself to dwell too much on those negative thoughts. He had gained a sizable following with his media presence, and he had a great deal of connections in the Irish government. Soon, he would set his plan into motion and rally his supporters. 

After his morning routine — well, unstructured routine, as it were — he would usually sit at his desk and get some work done. 

Today, however, was markedly different. Following his workout, spontaneously following a late lunch, Broekhart placed his smartphone to his ear. “You’re in?”

“Yes.” The voice on the other end of the connection was inflectionless and coldly precise.

Broekhart didn’t bother with praise. The boy wouldn’t care, anyway. “Contact the others. Five days.”

He hung up.

In Wellington Barracks, Yassen removed the phone from his ear. There was a curious crescent-shaped scar right under it, still an angry red.

Yassen turned into the corner of the room and held the phone back up, giving the pretense of making another call. “I’ve told him,” he murmured. “Is everything arranged?”

He waited a moment.

“Be ready.”


	4. Chapter 4

Queensbury Children’s Home was nestled comfortably between Stafford Place and Catherine Place, less than a mile away from Buckingham Palace. The building was nineteenth-century in style, with a porte-cochére for vehicles to drive through in front of the main entrance. Red bricks comprised the structure, and a mansard roof completed the look of rustic charm. 

Noah Barker, aged thirty-two, was a social entrepreneur and founder of the Queensbury charity. While pursuing his psychology PhD at Cambridge, he had devoted countless weekends and holidays to research. He had reached out to an eclectic range of experts and examined data from longitudinal studies regarding child development. He had meticulously studied research by the likes of Jean Piaget, George Herbert Mead, and Diana Baumrind. Most importantly, he’d spent two summers observing more successful children’s homes in Denmark. He’d spent another two years funding for his charity.

Now, Queensbury Children’s Home was up and running. It provided care for vulnerable children, and its current capacity was thirteen residents. Established just recently, Queensbury’s security system was still in the early stages of assembling completely. That was why Nightshade found it child’s play to infiltrate it. 

The two guards on duty were green recruits who didn’t exactly take their job seriously. In their disgruntled opinion, they were glorified babysitters. As if prepubescent kids could pose a threat to them. They each carried a Glock 26, designed for concealed carry. Barker had been insistent that nothing about the home should give off a sense of confinement or oppressive institutionalization. The guards didn’t really mind; it wasn’t like they would ever use it.

Guard #1 sighed as he shifted his weight to his left leg. “This is bollocks,” he complained to his companion. He squinted out into the afternoon sun and winced, instantly regretting his choice. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“What were you expecting?” Guard #2 snorted. “This is what they meant by ‘serving your country,’ mate. Get used to it.”

As they were speaking, a black Honda Civic pulled up to the entrance. The front window rolled down.

“Four arrivals,” the driver grunted. 

If the guards had looked a bit more closely, they would see that the driver was slightly smaller than their expected chauffeur, Jacobs, and that his hair, black and greasy, was actually a wig. The voice was pitched lower on purpose as a passable imitation of a man well past puberty. Shades obscured the eyes; the guards felt identical twinges of jealousy.

Guards #1 and #2 may have been recovering from a hangover. They hadn’t wanted to come to work with a bunch of kids running around, with no alcohol in sight. So they’d gone a bit generous with the booze the night before. 

They exchanged glances. Really, they should be asking for the paperwork, but those things always took a damn long time to come in, anyway. It would be a waste of breath. Besides, the four kids obediently filing out of the car looked innocent enough. 

There were two boys and two girls; Guard #1 distantly remembered as much from the phone call with his superior today. The local authorities had picked them up from some unregulated children’s home, where they had been unregistered and neglected. It was a good thing Queensbury had them in their care, then!

Guard #1 bit down an inopportune chuckle as he nodded down at the kids. He forced a pleasant expression on his face, which, given by Guard #2’s raised eyebrow, could use some practice. “Hi, kids. Welcome to Queensbury Children’s Home! Here, you’ll be looked after and well cared for…” He rattled off his obligatory introductory speech, something he abhorred but put up with as part of the job. Guard #2 was holding back a smirk, that bastard. Next arrival would be his turn. Then they’d see who’s laughing.

After his speech, one of the boys stepped forward and, much to his surprise, clasped his much larger hand into a firm grip. He had almond eyes, dark hair, and olive skin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said politely. “I’m Jared. What’s your name?”

Guard #1 blinked. Since when did any of the residents bother asking for his name? He fumbled for a moment before landing on, “You can call me Hex.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Hex,” one of the girls chirped. She had dark hair cut into a bob and appeared to be of Asian descent. 

The other two kids nodded and echoed her statement. 

Guard #2 shrugged at Guard #1’s bewildered but gratified expression. “Alright, kiddies. In you go. The kind lady at the front desk will show you to your rooms.”

Without further prompting, the four kids headed beyond the guards to the automatic doors. 

Jared, otherwise known as Number Twelve, turned to his three companions as they sat in the third floor’s common room, a homey, well-lit space with painted ivy on the pastel walls and a Wii and X-Box. They were seated together on a cosy L-shaped sofa. As the last four additions to Queensbury, they would be expecting no more arrivals. The home was for children aged nine to eighteen, meaning that they would be at the middle of the spectrum. 

“You heard Twenty-Six,” he told the others. “We have five days.”

Five days to lay low and avoid arousing suspicion. It would be difficult, but not impossible. The local authorities had been careless, and the paperwork, as with all things government-related, wouldn’t be for another week or so. The paperwork would most definitely alert the staff here; after all, they didn’t look anything like the arrivals they’d replaced. However, by the time the files had arrived, electronically or otherwise, it would be too late.

Number Fifteen curled, cat-like, on her end of the sofa. She sipped thoughtfully at her chocolate milkshake, a treat the receptionist had given to the each of them. “So Fiona will be here then,” she said. She grabbed the artificial cherry from the milkshake and stabbed her straw through it, with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Let’s go over the details again,” Number Twenty-Two suggested. She had darker skin and a pixie cut. Her ochre eyes gleamed with anticipation. 

Number Twenty-Four shook his head. “We know them already,” he insisted. “It’s all the news has been about lately.” Confident that the others were watching, he swept a deliberate gaze around the room.

Number Twenty-Two shrugged, conceding the point. The odds of them being overheard here were slim to none. Even if someone listened in on their conversation, they wouldn’t live long enough to tell anyone else. And it wasn’t like anyone would believe the story, anyway. 

Their discussion turned to other matters, mostly to keep their cover and relax after the tension of their arrival. For a charged moment, they had been prepared to act on the off-chance that the guards somehow realized the driver wasn’t who he was supposed to be. The first plan would have been to try talking their way out of it. The second plan would have entailed a great deal of force. They needn’t have worried; the guards had been inept and remarkably stupid.

“I’m going to bed,” Number Fifteen announced, once their conversation had dwindled to a stopping point. She stood up from the sofa and stretched gracefully. The three others followed suit shortly afterward. 

Five days before Nightshade’s plan would be set into motion. Nightshade had prepared for every eventuality, and soon, there would be lethal operatives in Queensbury, Wellington Barracks, and Buckingham Palace. Most notably, they had learned from their mistakes, and there would be no stopping them this time.


	5. Chapter 5

It was Wednesday, and Alex still hadn’t made any headway. To be fair, Prague’s immensity made it difficult for him to even know what to look for.

He woke up promptly at 7AM and slipped out of his dorm. Over a breakfast of baked eggs with pancetta, he sipped his milk and zoomed in and out of Google Maps.

There was Prague’s Lesser Town, _Malá Strana_ , which he had yet to explore more thoroughly. He’d do that today.

He finished his milk, pocketed his phone, and paid for his food. 

Twenty minutes later, after retracing his steps over Charles Bridge, he found himself in front of an unassuming and frankly quite forgettable set of plain wooden doors. After being dazzled by awe-inspiring architecture and other impressive sights around Prague, Alex rather missed the element of surprise that came with discovering hidden gems.

And behind the set of doors was indeed a gem. As he wandered around, he saw an idyllic duck pond and preening peacocks, the sun dappling their colorful plumage. There was a long walkway lined with old benches, modern statues, and a variety of foliage, from a weeping willow to a gingko.

Alex checked his phone. He was in Vojanovy Sady, a secluded park popular with the locals and often overlooked by tourists. Ironic, considering how the park was within a stone’s throw of Charles Bridge.

He ended up standing before the decidedly unimposing Chapel of St. Elias, according to a quick Google search. The structure was shaped into a grotto, with artificial stalactites texturing the dark rock. The unsettling appearance of the bulky grotto seemed an incongruous stain in the enchanting garden, and Alex glanced around for passerby as he entered the chapel.

It wasn’t a large space by any means; the interior was smaller than Alex expected, and eerily cave-like in appearance. There were a few windows that allowed natural light in, illuminating the fading frescoes of St. Elias overhead.

Alex surveyed the room. It seemed unremarkable, except…

He stepped forward to run his hands over the far wall, right under where an oval window let in the light. The coarse, pebbled texture remained fairly consistent throughout its expanse, but there was an almost indistinguishable smooth section, about six centimeters on each of the four sides. There was the slightest indentation inwards into the wall, the approximate size for a fingerprint. Any unconventionally sharp-eyed tourist would dismiss it as one of the interior’s many textured details. 

Alex removed his backpack and dug around in it. Packed inside were his Kodak camera and AirPods; his SIM card was zipped snugly in a pocket of his trousers. He’d also packed the latex glove that he’d used to copy Brother Mike’s fingerprint. The glove had allowed him to bypass the Temple’s fingerprint scanner back at Kavos Bay. He took it out now and pulled it over his hand. 

Holding his breath, he pressed his finger into the indentation. 

For a few moments, there was no indication that the scan had worked. Alex wondered if Nightshade had built in an alarm system for the contingency of wrong prints. Most likely. What if some unsuspecting kid had thought it fun to stick his finger in it?

Next to Alex’s trainers, a concealed trapdoor in the floor swung open. Hardly daring to hope, Alex peered down.

A short flight of wooden stairs led down into the darkness, abruptly dropping off to some undetermined height above wherever the bottom was. Gelatinous slime covered the wooden planks. Alex grimaced as he tentatively prodded the top step. When he could lift his foot successfully, he proceeded downwards, ensuring that the trapdoor remained open. After he reached the bottom step, he pulled out his phone and shined his flashlight.

He was in a cavernous chamber. Water dripped off the plaster walls and down onto the ground, around ten meters below him. A circular net, perhaps an equal ten meters in diameter, stretched out to cushion his fall.

Alex tried sending a text to Tom at the foot of the stairs, to no avail. Even as close to the surface as he was, he couldn’t get a signal. He glanced up at the sliver of light, visible through the slightly opened trapdoor. Climbing the few stairs it took to reach the top, he peeked through the narrow opening to make sure the coast was clear.

Once he confirmed there was no one else in the chapel, he removed himself from the trapdoor and quickly put distance between himself and the structure. 

He worried his lower lip as he considered what to send Mrs Jones. He never had much experience contacting MI6 so directly mid-mission. As per his usual standard, he would be captured by this point, or without a phone in the first place due to the constraints of his cover. Smithers had provided him communications devices before, of course, but this time Alex had the time and resources at his disposal to be as detailed as possible. 

Ten more seconds, and he made up his mind.

The message he sent was in their agreed public-private key encryption; they couldn’t be too careful. Alex encrypted his message in Mrs Jones’s public key, and upon receiving it, Mrs Jones would decrypt it with her private key. 

_Vojanovy Sady. Chapel of St. Elias. Back wall. Fingerprint scanner, trapdoor that leads to down to possible base. Will investigate further._

Alex placed his phone in his backpack. He could take it all the way back to the dorm; it would be the right thing to do, the safe thing to do.

In the end, he decided to hide it well behind a bush a ways off from the chapel. At the height of the fall he’d seen, he couldn’t afford any unnecessary weight. He did take the Kodak and AirPods, zipping them securely in his hoodie pouch and trousers pocket. The Kodak was heavier than his phone, but his phone was useless, anyway — at the very least, Alex could keep the Kodak as a last resort, in case things went more pear-shaped than expected.

He shot a glance around his surroundings one last time before strolling back into the chapel. 

Even though the morning sun shone with more glaring intensity, the shadows within the grotto seemed to multiply. Alex ignored his growing sense of dread as he re-scanned the fingerprint and entered the trap-door. He reached overhead and tugged it shut with an ominous clang. There was no going back now.

Alex quickly realized his mistake; without his phone’s flashlight, the chamber was pitch-black. If he slipped, he’d land ten meters below and risk serious injury. He dug into his hoodie pocket and removed his Kodak. Maybe if he used the flash…

Feeling a little ridiculous, he made sure the thumb wheel couldn’t turn any more and held the flash button. He’d be given only a fraction of a second to advance down the stairs. Maybe he’d have to repeat this process several times. Twelve missions and two years with MI6, and this was how his life came to an end. Forgetting his phone. The irony was not lost on him.

Abruptly, a brilliant white light illuminated the room. Alex blinked, so startled by its intensity that he neglected to step forward. When the light continued, he frowned down at the camera. There was an inscription scrawled on the back, where the instructions had been moments earlier.

_Your thumb is over the lens, doofus!_

Alex wanted to laugh. Of course, Smithers would help him right when he needed him most, even if he hadn’t anticipated this exact situation. It occurred to him that incorporating a strobe function as self-defense would be perfect for a Kodak camera. He’d have to bring it up to Smithers sometime, assuming he survived this mission.

Alex maintained his thumb’s position in front of the lens as he carefully stepped down the stairs. He reached the bottom ledge and peered down, angling the camera so that he got a clear visual of the net below.

Counting down in his head, he flipped around to his back as he stepped off the ledge, clutching the camera in his hands as he fell. He kept his elbows relaxed and knees bent. 

He hit the net hard; it gave way beneath him and cushioned the impact. He caught his breath as he sat up. Somehow, his thumb hadn’t slipped from the camera lens. He wasn’t sure how long it would last him, but knowing Smithers, he’d have ample time to explore.

Alex slipped out from the net and landed lightly on the ground. He glanced around. To his left was a tunnel; there was nothing noteworthy to his right except for rotting wooden planks stacked haphazardly atop one another.

He turned towards the tunnel. 

As he walked, he squinted to see if he could discern the end; there was no light to be found but the one from the Kodak. The air was uncomfortably damp, and Alex shivered from the sudden chill.

Fifteen minutes later, Alex began to feel the dread settle deep into his bones. Or perhaps that was just the cold. He tugged a hood over his head as he hunched in on himself. All he could see was mud and plaster, for hundreds of yards ahead.

Just when Alex was starting to lose hope of finding an end to the tunnel, he saw a vast structure looming in the distance, twinkling lights giving it a warm, hazy glow. Invigorated, he sped up his pace. He removed his thumb from the Kodak lens and pocketed the camera. He’d have to thank Smithers profusely upon his return. Like always.

He studied the building before him. It was three stories tall, with an impressive array of arched windows and a downwards-sloping roof. Two staircases with white marble balustrades spiraled up to a terrace sheltered by a wooden pergola. A wrought iron fence surrounded the terrace. The look was distinctly modern, the building’s sleek geometric designs accented by the outdoor lighting. The only entrance was a glass-paned doorway standing a few meters away from the edge of the terrace.

Alex doubted that Nightshade would be careless enough to forgo a rigorous security system around their base’s perimeter. Trip wires, motion sensors…perhaps even the pathway leading to the stairs would have motion-activated lights that doubled as ambience. He was partially surprised by the glaring lack of alarm to his presence. Surely, he’d already been detected.

He glanced up at the terrace. On one of the building’s walls, there was a side-trellis leading up to the third floor, where a casement window hung a few centimeters ajar.

He steered away from the main path and headed towards the right staircase. After scaling it, he made a beeline for the side-trellis. He looked up; the height had to be at least ten meters. 

Gritting his teeth, he began to climb.


	6. Chapter 6

As Alex’s trainers placed weight on the trellis, he could hear the wood groaning ominously. Nerves thrumming with tension, he forced himself not to look down. The only sounds that could be heard were his panting breaths in the eerie silence of the chamber, in counterpoint with the creaking wood. His fingers, stiff from the cold, grasped shakily for his next handhold.

He laboriously pulled himself to the top. As he’d seen, the casement window hung slightly ajar. He reached out, precariously balancing atop the trellis, and nudged the the window so that he could slip inside.

Safely on the third floor, he adjusted the window back into the position he’d found it in.

He looked around. He found himself in a comfortable carpeted hallway, something like one he’d see in a hotel, with modern light fixtures that warmly lit the space. Doors flanked either side of the hall.

He tried the one closest to him. It opened with ease.

Alex found himself in a dark, spacious control room of sorts. LCD monitors covered the far wall and bathed the room in an eerie glow. Blinking lights lined panels that extended out over a table facing the monitors, numbered from 1 to 26. The screens displayed live feeds of the numbers in their rooms, all of them dressing out of their sweaty workout clothes and into clean ones. He hastily averted his eyes and examined the monitors that showed vacant rooms. 

There were sixteen empty rooms. Sixteen missing numbers? Alex suddenly recalled the two numbers whose graves he’d seen on Kavos Bay. So really, Nightshade only had twelve numbers at their disposal. Mrs Jones said they’d captured nine in addition to the two they’d already have, bringing the missing total up to eleven. Thirteen numbers not currently at the base. Two numbers were probably just away from their rooms. 

Alex’s eyes landed on the twenty-sixth monitor. Displayed on the screen was a tidy and unoccupied bedroom. Blankets neatly folded, immaculate bedsheets without so much as a crease in them. Julius Grief had been the planned twenty-sixth, but then of course that had all been a ruse on Alex’s part. 

The whole set-up reminded Alex too much of Point Blanc. He remembered exploring the third floor of the school. The televisions in the rooms that were carbon-copies of the students’ own. The thoughtless invasion of privacy, all part of a grand scheme to satiate Hugo Grief’s appetite for world domination. 

He shivered. The monitors before him were a very real reminder that the numbers, as much as they seemed to enjoy their training, were nothing but puppets on strings that could be cut at any moment. 

His eyes lingered on the twenty-sixth monitor. Had Nightshade really found a new recruit? It seemed odd. Nightshade liked to abduct kids at an absurdly young age. Alex couldn’t imagine an infant surrounded by trained killers at least ten years older. Maybe Nightshade had found a ready-made teen killer, like the Julius Grief they thought they’d happened upon.

He performed a quick sweep of the room, searching for any useful information or switches that could compromise the system. There was nothing. None of the keys on the keyboard responded to Alex, and he was wary of pressing any unidentifiable buttons on the main control panel. 

The next room was more familiar. Alex stood in the middle of what appeared to be a recording studio. Cables ran the length of the floor, and there was a bank of audio mixers up against one wall. At the time on Kavos Bay, Alex hadn’t put the puzzle pieces together just yet; now, he knew the room to be a radio transmitting room. 

Alex repeated the search he’d done moments before. Again, with a disappointing lack of results. He blew out a frustrated exhale as he crouched against the wall closest to the door. 

There were more opportunities to find information. He straightened, wincing at the slight soreness in his legs, and left the room.

He came upon the third door. This one was locked. Like at the entrance of the Temple on Kavos Bay, there was a fingerprint scanner next to it. 

Alex scanned Brother Mike’s fingerprint and gently nudged the door open, an inch at a time. He peered through.

It was the largest room yet, around seventy square meters and partitioned into two areas by a green curtain. An operating table stood in the center of the section closest to the entrance. There was a surgical boom off to the side, and different-colored tubes ran from down the ceiling. A handful of monitors were scattered around the room. On the other side of the curtain, chemicals and surgical equipment occupied neat shelves that lined the walls. Alex yanked the curtain back, forcing down a sudden and unwelcome bout of nausea. Another unsettling reminder of Point Blanc. 

He propelled his unwilling feet beyond the curtain. There would be files on Nightshade’s members here, he knew. Sure enough, there was a black file cabinet in the far corner. He opened the bottom drawer, already unlocked, and thumbed through its contents. 

As he suspected, there were twenty...six files? He hastily recounted. So there was an occupant in the twenty-sixth room. He paused at the corresponding file. It was the thickest one of the lot. Strange, considering how the latest newcomer should have the least amount of material.

He removed the file and glanced through it. The first ten pages seemed to be the patient’s psychological profile. Oddly enough, there was no picture for identification. Only three succinct descriptors for physical attributes: male, blue eyes, blond hair. No height nor weight. Not even an age.

Alex skimmed through a few sentences. _Exhibits symptoms of retrograde amnesia. Unable to remember how he ended up here, or where he was right before. Unable to recall publicly known events over the last few years. Unlikely to be resistance to interrogation. Focal, as subject proves remarkably capable of picking up new skills. Highly intelligent and adaptable. Will be an excellent asset if properly brought to heel._

His blood ran cold. _Brought to heel._ Alex could easily imagine a faceless man paying visits to this poor child, meticulously jotting down his observations in his precise script. Watching, emotionless, as the unwilling child went under the knife repeatedly. 

Alex knew what it was like to be used as a weapon, after all. But even MI6 hadn’t dared tamper with him, to this obscene degree. He thought about the patchwork of scars all over his body and winced. Well, not directly, at least.

Another written statement caught his attention.

_Details of birth completely untraceable. No previous records of blood type, prints, DNA. Chlapec je duch._

Alex only recognized _duch_ — the Czech word for “ghost.” During their stay in Prague, Ian had gone with Alex on a ghost walking tour, and the man had regaled him with increasingly outlandish stories as the night wore on. Alex had treasured the moment, as when Ian wasn’t drilling him on strange but useful skills, he’d spent the rest of the trip conspicuously absent. 

Alex flicked through the rest of the pages. Detailed documentation regarding the boy’s multiple operations. He grimaced.

Working with efficiency, he pulled out his Kodak and snapped pictures of the front page of the twenty-six files. He just so happened to have twenty-seven exposures, which was just enough for this task. Not for the first time, he cursed his stupidity in neglecting to bring his phone. 

After he’d finished taking the pictures, he shut the drawer and crept to the door of the room. He looked both ways in the hallway; still empty. He closed it again firmly and reached into his pocket for his AirPods. 

Alex stuffed an AirPod into his left ear and edged closer to the left wall, which faced the rest of the hallway. He adjusted the force sensor and could only hear white noise for an interminable time.

Finally, he stilled as he heard the telltale scrape of a chair. 

“Gerandy. You’ve done well.” The deep voice, American, was measured and deliberate; Alex shivered as he recognized Brother Mike.

“The payment?” a clipped voice in a London accent replied. “I was promised two million upon successful delivery.”

Alex wanted to groan. As quickly as he could manage, he slipped his hands into his pocket and pulled out the Kodak. Three clicks of the red flash button. Hopefully the nine Nightshade operatives Gerandy had “captured” were still detained, although Alex doubted it. How could he relay a warning to MI6? Mrs Jones needed to know. He supposed the Kodak was the closest he could get to telling her something was deeply wrong; after all, he’d already texted her all the details.

He would need to get above ground to make the call on his phone.

“It’ll be transferred to your account by tonight,” another voice, this one belonging to a female, soothed. The undertone of exasperation told Alex all he needed to know about Gerandy’s fate.

There was a protracted silence. Alex tensed, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Logically, he knew was safe for the time being in this room, but they couldn’t be further than the end of the hall. They could still find Alex with ease. 

Through the crystal-clear speakers, he could hear a muffled thud, followed by a groan. 

“Clean it up,” the female voice (which Alex was fairly sure belonged to Sister Jeanne) commanded.

Alex kept his breathing even as he stealthily crept out the door and back in the direction he’d came in. He’d done his job. He had located the base and sent the distress signal. Within a few hours, Vojanovy Sady would be crawling with MI6 agents, if they weren’t already on their way. Soon, this would all be over. 

But he hadn’t found any information regarding Nightshade’s plans, had he? Alex hesitated. There wasn’t any evidence implicating Nightshade in some sort of evil scheme, although he hadn’t combed through the base’s entirety just yet. All he’d found was that the organization had just employed an MI6 mole. His palms itched. Maybe he shouldn’t have called MI6 here; Mrs Jones would have less support back in London. He dismissed the urge to investigate further. He had to get out as soon as possible.

He pulled the heavy drapes back and and ducked through the window. As quickly as he could, he climbed down the side-trellis. 

At the bottom, he stepped out onto the terrace and found himself on the receiving end of a Beretta 92.

Alex froze. 

The boy in front of him was a ghost. Or some poor science experiment as a remnant of Hugo Grief’s depraved legacy. But if that were the case, how had Grief gotten his hands on a teenage Yassen Gregorovich?

He appeared more gaunt than the Yassen Alex had known, more skin-and-bones than lithe sinew. He was around the same height, but there was something knobby-kneed about the young adult in front of him. Like a colt still growing into its final proportions. 

The assassin in question continued to level his gun at his chest. His pale eyes were calm, assessing. “You’re Alex Rider.” There was no hint of question in his tone. The voice was much the same as Alex remembered: serious, composed, inflectionless. 

“Yes.”

Yassen considered him. “You look like — ”

“My father, I know.” Why did he run his mouth like this? Best not to antagonize a seemingly immortal assassin.

On the other hand…so this Yassen had met John already. He must know that they were no longer in the early 1900s, or whenever the damn senior citizen had trained under his father. Was this a younger Yassen thrown into the future? Or did the assassin age in reverse? It was just unfair.

Alex eyed the wrought iron fence surrounding the terrace perimeter. Maybe a few meters tall; he could scale it in a few desperate, adrenaline-fueled seconds. But even if he made a break for it, he couldn’t move faster than a bullet traveling at hundreds of meters per second. And how would he escape after? The tunnel had been at least a mile in length. He hadn’t thought of how to get back up to the surface. If there was a way, he’d have to find one here. 

He turned back to look at Yassen. If he so much as breathed the wrong way, the man — well, boy — would somehow incapacitate him. Alex doubted he’d shoot him, as Adult Yassen had died failing to take the shot, but who knew when he was dealing with a teenage version of him?

Yassen tilted his head in thought. “Where is he?” 

Alex’s mind raced. Did he know about his father’s duplicity? Surely not. 

He examined the older boy’s face; it was just as unreadable as Adult Yassen’s had been. He decided to play it safe.

“He’s at home.”

This way, Yassen could interpret that as either a warning or hopeful news, depending on what he knew.

“You’re lying.” His mild-mannered tone sent a chill down his spine. “The truth, Alex.”

A part of Alex wanted to snap back in defiance; if he knew the answer already, why’d he bother to ask? On the other hand, he should have known even teenage Yassen would be able to read him. It was aggravating that it didn’t swing both ways, even with their truncated age gap.

“He’s dead.”

The uncompromising truth, put so bluntly, bounced around in Alex’s head. He analyzed the assassin’s face for any trace of a reaction — he didn’t know what he was hoping for, but perhaps something close to grief or regret.

He found nothing.

When Yassen didn’t respond for a while, Alex said, “Look, I’m sure you’re confused. Come with me, and I can do my best to — ”

The rest of his words died in his throat as another figure stepped gracefully out onto the terrace. The muscular build, the solid shoulders and thick neck. Alex’s stomach dropped. He recognized William, Mrs Jones’s cold-blooded son. Sometimes, he would still dream about their karate match at Kavos Bay, held under the scrutiny of Brother Mike and the others, except in his ghastly nighttime rendition William would successfully break Alex’s neck.

“Twenty-Six.” 

Alex almost expected William to address him, but no. The boy’s attention was directed fully on Yassen, his expression approaching a surprising approximation of deference. Alex supposed it made sense; Yassen was Twenty-Six now, not Julius Grief, but the shade of respect in William’s attitude was new.

His mind flashed to the image of Twenty Six’s substantial file. What kind of state was Yassen in, after all that? He shuddered.

Yassen’s gaze lingered on Alex for two more beats before he glanced over at William. The gun didn’t waver the slightest bit. His face was blank, as usual.

“Take Alex into his prepared cell,” William continued. His lips curled into a sadistic smile. “Make sure you search him. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

Hours later into the day, the Teachers were seated around a round table. Cups of untouched tea sat in front of them.

Red spots of color flushed Brother Lamar’s cheeks. “Why is Twenty-Six no longer at his post? He did well enough infiltrating Wellington Barracks.”

“He’s been compromised,” Brother Mike responded calmly. “That tends to happen to our operatives when Alex Rider is involved.” 

The Teachers exchanged displeased looks. They’d been planning their revenge on Alex, and their efforts had finally paid off. Gerandy’s failure to make his rendezvous had tipped MI6 off, and, predictably, they’d sent their teen spy to sort out their mess. The boy had arrived two days ahead of schedule, which was unfortunate, but one of the many scenarios they’d scrupulously planned for.

“They need to be disposed of,” Sister Jeanne said. She assessed her colleagues’ expressions and found unanimous agreement. “Alex we already have plans for. We’ll break the boy, and then hand him to Twenty-Six. Teach them both a lesson before they’re killed.”

Sister Krysten nodded. The notion pleased her; she had always thought Twenty-Six a dangerous liability. They’d assumed, quite wrongly, that they could sway the boy to their cause. But he was far too old; younger children proved more susceptible to suggestion. As a last resort, the Teachers had subjected the boy to a number of procedures. It seemed it had been all in vain. Another failed investment. Speaking of which… “And Numbers Nine and Six? The other numbers still don’t know where they are. Nine and Six haven’t attempted to contact us since their capture.”

In truth, they weren’t even sure if the displaced numbers could do so. That damn paranoid woman, Mrs Jones, kept all information about her child and Number Nine highly confidential. Gerandy hadn’t had the clearance to know.

It was possible that MI6 had found a way to remove the communication devices surgically implanted into them. Although given how long they’d been residing in the numbers’ heads, it was unlikely even the most skilled surgeon could successfully extract them without internal damage. More likely, MI6 was using an RF inhibitor to jam their radio signals. Either way, Numbers Six and Nine were still compromised. The other nine numbers in captivity had managed to stave off MI6’s persistent attempts to remove their own devices. Thanks to Gerandy’s intel, the Teachers were able to override MI6’s comprehensive security measures and maintain communications with them. From their latest reports, they still hadn’t sighted Numbers Six and Nine.

“Once the numbers escape, they will be in the position to go searching for Six and Nine and determine their state of mind,” Brother Lamar said finally. “If they’re still agreeable, they can join us for the rest of the operation. Otherwise, when the numbers raze MI6 to the ground, they can leave Six and Nine with them.”

Brother Mike drummed his fingers against the side of his cup. “Agreed. And with the boy’s premature arrival, we’ll have to move everything ahead. MI6 will know where we are now.”

“They’ll alert all law enforcement to be extra wary these coming days,” Brother Lamar agreed.

Sister Krysten shook her head. “I doubt it. MI6 still doesn’t know about Gerandy. They don’t know what we’re planning; we have no paper trail documenting our plans this time, so the boy won’t know anything. Discovering our whereabouts will be a triumph for MI6, rather than a reason for alarm.”

“The numbers escaping will render that a moot point,” Sister Jeanne pointed out. “Destroying MI6’s headquarters will definitely put us on everyone’s radar.”

“Very well,” Brother Mike said. “So our current course of action is to deal with Alex and Twenty-Six. We abstain from giving the order to the numbers at MI6 until Friday, as regularly scheduled. We evacuate this base and rendezvous at our new location. Any objections?”

There were none.

“What about the client?” Brother Lamar asked.

They hadn’t informed the client about their planned retribution on Alex. They’d also neglected to mention the very real possibility that Six and Nine were compromised. But all in all, two lost numbers in captivity were nothing compared to the remaining twenty-two they had. Alex and MI6 presented the actual threat here, and if everything went according to plan, both would be permanently out of commission very soon.

“Say nothing,” Sister Jeanne responded. Her lips whitened as they flattened into a thin line. “Stopping MI6 and Alex is essential to the success of our plan. But our client doesn’t need to know. The less we reveal about our…internal matters, the better.”

Better for business. Nightshade had a reputation to uphold, after all. The failed operation in London was a setback, to be sure, but they’d had successes in Munich, Washington, Singapore, Paris, Brussels, and Madrid. London was a tough nut to crack, but Nightshade would soon add to their growing list.

Sister Krysten nodded decisively. “We’ll reconvene after dinner, then. We still have much to discuss.” 

With that, each of the Teachers stood and left the room.


End file.
